


Ese de rojo

by flyingisland



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Post Season Four, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 16:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13767645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: On a dangerous mission to a treacherous alien planet, Lance and Keith finally connect for the very first time.





	Ese de rojo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [googlyeyeseyes123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/googlyeyeseyes123/gifts).



> For Mai: an awesome friend, a lovely person, a continuous inspiration. Happy belated birthday and Valentine’s day. <3

“—the mission is highly sensitive, and so it will be dangerous for more than two people to travel to the planet at once. The Blade of Marmora has special intelligence about the state of the planet’s ecosystem, so they sent Keith to assist us, but we still need one Paladin to join him.”

Lance is falling asleep sitting up, barely stifling his bored yawn as Allura and Shiro continue to speak about the newest mission.

Alien planet. Got it.

Dangerous mission. Got it.

Stupid Keith too distracted by his dumb mullet to get the job done on his own. Got it.

Blade of Marmora, complicated ecosystem, important materials that someone needs to collect for the betterment of the war effort and the coalition, blah blah blah, the same old story with a new, exciting planet. The same old mission that he feels as though he’s been on a billion times.

But as he listens, and as he steals a few stealthy glances at Keith sitting across from him with his arms crossed over his chest, he realizes, belatedly…

Everyone is looking at him now. They’re silent, only watching him as though they’re expecting for him to say something. He takes a moment to allow his eyes to work around the room—from Pidge’s raised brows and the snarky comments just barely concealed behind her grin, to Hunk’s apologetic frown. From Shiro looking at him, paused in brief a moment between going over the mission’s parameters, to Allura and Coran turned in towards each other, watching him as though he might be planning on doing anything but sitting here and continuing to tune them out.

Everyone is waiting, as though he has any idea what’s going on. And he wonders, after so much time passes in silence, if he missed something important while he was tuning this boring meeting out.

“What?” he asks finally, in a rough, hurried bark of a voice that gives away entirely too much of his anxiety at once. “I wasn’t listening, okay?! You got me! But it’s always the same crap, isn’t it? Just bust in, fight the Galra, save the people… it’s not like there’s ever anything new about any of these missions anymore.”

Allura narrows her eyes, frowning deeper as she practically mimics Keith’s usual standoffish stance, with her arms crossed over her chest, her expression so sour that he can already hear her lecture echoing around in his thoughts.

“Well, maybe if you’d been paying attention,” she says slowly, enunciating each word with a more intense glare, “you’d know that this mission is different. _For once_ , apparently. For the sake of your own safety, we can only allow two pilots to land on the planet at once. The rest of us will be in the Castle close by, just in case you need to call us for a quick rescue. Keith has already been sent by the Blade of Marmora, but—”

She’s drawing nearer now, placing a hand on the end of the table for what Lance assumes is dramatic effect.

“The air on the planet is far too toxic to breathe for too long. And it might break down most of the lions over the timespan that you’ll need to stay there in order to complete your mission. We believe that the Red Lion’s resistance to heat will allow it to survive in the atmosphere for a prolonged period. So _Lance_ , you will need to be the one to assist Keith on this journey. There will only be a small window of time throughout each quintant in which you can venture out onto the planet without running the risk of falling victim to the toxic air there. I would say… two, maybe three vargas over three quintants. That should be just the right amount of time for the two of you to collect the resources that we need before returning to the Castle.”

Three quintants, alone with Keith. Three days, save for a ridiculously short span of eight to nine hours, spent toiling away in a tightly confined space with the moody, hot-headed bastard. He can’t even find the strength to look at Keith right now. He doesn’t know what he’s so afraid of finding in his expression.

But he pretends to be annoyed about the entire concept of it—exasperated about being stuck with someone like Keith, inconvenienced by the time spent apart from Allura, and his bedroom, his video games and a shower.

He’s too afraid to consider how he really feels.

The exhilaration. The rapid beating of his heart.

The fantasies, the stupid little daydreams that he’s always conjuring up in his head—if the two of them would be closer in another life. If he could ever touch Keith as casually as Shiro touches Keith, if he could be different than that, if both of them could be _more_.

If he could ever be the sort of person capable of taming a wild beast like Keith.

It’s been years now, and a long, tortuous journey. It’s been plenty enough time for this silly little crush to finally fizzle out and die.

But the thought of spending so much time alone with Keith, in such close quarters, only brings those feelings back tenfold—like waves crashing to shore. Like morning melting into night.

Like Keith’s frown easing out into a small, nervous smile when he finally has the strength to meet his eyes.

These next few days are going to kill him.

He wonders if anyone will have the forethought to write “death by pretty boy” on his epitaph.

 

* * *

 

The Red lion makes easy work of the sizzling green and purple gases wrapped about the planet’s surface. It dips through them with ease, hurling forward with a practiced precision that Lance has been perfecting all this time since Keith went away. He doesn’t miss the tiny spark of something akin to pride in Keith’s eyes. He doesn’t miss the way that Keith’s lips twitch, how his fingers jerk ever-so-slightly against the seat next to Lance’s head, as though itching for a go at the controls as well.

And it takes everything within Lance not to scoot to the side and give Keith exactly what he seems to want. It takes all that he has not to step down from the lion that he very clearly earned long before Keith abandoned his position, if only to see more of that shy smile.

He doesn’t like these urges, or these wants. He isn’t sure how they make him feel. If he’s okay with this weakness, if maybe someday, he’ll get used to it.

If Keith would judge him if he knew that Lance wants nothing more than to make him even more proud, and to please him, and to make him so happy that he never has to wear that moody frown ever again.

He’s fallen so helplessly, absolutely hard. He’s in entirely too deep.

But even still, in their twin reflections through the blinking transparent blues of the Altean text scrolling over Red’s front window—he can’t help but appreciate the inkling of a grin that he can barely piece together on Keith’s pretty, pouty lips.

He’d like to think that Keith is impressed with him.

He’d like to think that maybe, his tender feet in a new lion during Keith’s time as black paladin hadn’t been just another reason why he went away.

He’d like to think, if anything else, that maybe now, in this moment, with Lance obviously wowing him with his new flying abilities, that he might regret not sticking around.

One can only hope, Lance thinks. But knowing Keith, he’s probably just excited to be here, so he can start counting down the hours until they can finally leave.

Which, Lance thinks, is realistically what he should be doing as well.

They land effortlessly, with a soft, nearly noiseless crunch of Red’s massive paws in the ground. It’s foggy beyond the windows, so hot that immediately the glass is clouded, covered in so much condensation that Lance has to squint to see the gnarled vines and low-hanging canopy of the trees just in front of them. They’ve found themselves in the middle of a lush, thriving, hopefully abandoned stretch of trees. The twin suns of this planet are so distant and obscured through the gases that there’s barely enough light creeping through to illuminate the world around them.

He can hear the chirping and the yowling of creatures somewhere hidden in the dark. The sound of it makes his stomach turn, but the map that Pidge uploaded to Red’s interface is blinking somewhere close by. The cave that holds this valuable resource is only a few miles away. By foot, it shouldn’t take them more than a few hours to get there.

They’d collected a few expandable bags to collect everything that they’ll need. Allura had told them, three quintant’s worth. Three trips to the caverns. Two nights and three mornings.

 _“The atmosphere will clear around midday,”_ Allura had told them, _“that gives you one varga of sunlight, one varga in which it will be safe enough for you to venture outside of The Red Lion and collect what you need. You might be able to extend that to two, in case of emergency, but you shouldn’t push it. Don’t get too cocky.”_

Red, he knows, would be entirely too large to navigate through all of these trees without destroying them. And the spores, Allura had told them, that sleep within the trees would eat away at their suits faster than they could fly back to the safety of space.

This place is a living nightmare. If this resource weren’t so apparently important, he would have refused to go just on the basis that a place like this shouldn’t even exist. If anything, maybe sometimes, Galra destruction is the right answer. It’s a nasty, selfish thought, but he can’t stop himself from thinking it. Life doesn’t thrive on a planet like this. There’s nothing here but danger, and death, and a destructive force that could ruin the entire rebel effort if he and Keith don’t tread lightly.

And despite all of this, there are hours and hours left unaccounted for. Time that he’ll be sitting here in only Keith’s company. Time that the two of them will be forced to occupy, to distract themselves during. Time that he’ll have to fight the urge to ask Keith why he really left them, what secrets he’s obviously keeping, if he ever felt anything between the two of them that’s grown far too big and overwhelming anymore for Lance to ignore.

The time, he thinks, is the most dangerous thing about this mission. These hours of wordless quiet. These long moments of temptation, stretching out in front of him, so hopeless and long.

But they’re fifteen minutes into their first long night of waiting, when surprisingly, Keith is the one who breaks the silence.

“It must be difficult,” he says slowly, through gritted teeth, as though speaking itself has become too difficult, “I mean… being away.”

Lance isn’t entirely sure what he means, but he wants to tell Keith that he should know that better than anyone.

Keith himself has pulled away from the pilot’s seat, busied himself with fiddling with their packed bags at the corner of the room, as though he might unpack and make himself at home here. It isn’t a terrible idea, in the grand scheme of things. They have a cot that needs to be spread out long enough that the wrinkles smooth away before the night. They have weird, portable alien toothpaste that doesn’t need to be spit out, food goo stuffed in airtight pouches, and water stored in strange drums that will keep it consistently sterile.

There are med packs that need to be readily available, maps, and expandable bags.

Lance makes a mental checklist of everything that they need to unpack, if only to distract himself from the firm, full globes of Keith’s ass flexing so beautifully in that tantalizing Marmora uniform, as he bends down and begins tugging at the zippers, pulling everything out and setting it in a neat pile.

That gorgeous ass, leading down into the firm, shapely slopes of his legs. The small, almost _dainty_ ankles, the little feet. And upwards, upwards, into the bumps of his spine that Lance knows are hiding somewhere under all of those clothes, the smooth, porcelain skin. The fanning of his cinched waist into broad, firm shoulders.

The long hair that he’d love nothing more than to tangle his fingers in.

The soft, ample lips that he’d give his life for just one chance to kiss.

Lance swallows hard, willing down the color blossoming under his skin. Keith’s shoulders aren’t the only thing that’s firm around here right now, but they’re the only thing that Lance feels comfortable focusing on.

Keith, he tells himself, has no right being so pretty and so insufferable, all at once. Keith has no right to be this beautiful even in the darkness and the red glare of the cockpit lights overhead. He isn’t allowed to be so untouchable, so distant. It’s unfair, that Lance isn’t as mad at him for leaving as he just wishes that he could see more of him like this—just like he used to. Just like he always used to take for granted, when he didn’t know that someday, Keith would go away.

He finds himself wishing Keith could come back, just so he could talk to him like they used to talk. So he could admire him from afar. So he could convince himself that everything was okay, he could live like this. He didn’t need to be Keith’s one and only. He didn’t need to be the most important person in his life.

He could settle for just being someone who Keith actually wanted to talk to. Just being friends. Just existing in the same wavelength long enough for Keith to remember his name.

God, he feels pitiful.

This crush, he thinks, is growing only more and more pathetic every day that he doesn’t, finally, allow it to smother and die away.

Keith turns to him then, and he realizes with much fright that he never actually answered his question.

“I-I don’t know what you mean,” he says hurriedly, as though saying anything now will make his extended silence any less weird, “you left too. Isn’t it hard for you?”

Keith makes a peculiar face—juts out his bottom lip, averts his eyes and lowers his brows enough that they’re practically lying on top on his eyelids.

And for a moment, he’s quiet too. He lets out a short, huff of a breath. Tosses down the blanket in his hands on top of the slowly-expanding cot, and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I meant from Allura. It must be difficult for you to be away from her for so long.”

The explanation doesn’t make any of this less confusing. It doesn’t make him feel as though Keith has any room to talk. But slowly, as Keith seems to resign himself to not getting whatever answer he was looking for, as he turns back to unpacking, with just a little bit more aggression than before—Lance finally realizes what he must have been getting at.

He realizes, with a small jolt of surprise and embarrassment, that Keith must have had his own ideas about why Lance seemed to be dreading this venture, and they definitely weren’t anywhere close to the truth.

That doesn’t stop the temptation, however, to pretend that, yes, Allura is definitely the one who he’s had his eye on all this time. Even though he realizes that he’d somehow have an even better chance of scoring with Keith than with the Princess who has rebuffed him now more times than he can count.

But it’s easier to flirt with someone when he knows that the rejection won’t hurt. It’s easier to play everything off as though it’s all a game—as though he’s desperate for any love and affection, as though there’s no sole person who he’s had his eye on all this time.

He clears his throat, tearing his eyes from Keith’s back and squinting through the fog outside of Red’s front window. He feels as though he can make out movement somewhere near the ground. He can hear scuffling somewhere outside, in an indecipherable direction.

He knows that they’re safe inside of the Red Lion, but he dreads the idea of finding out what sorts of creatures can survive in this ecosystem tomorrow. He hopes that they’re only so active now, during the night, because they won’t be outside in the day.

“I… I guess it kind of sucks not being able to see everyone for awhile. Not really Allura in particular, but… _everyone_. But, uh… I guess it’s nice to catch up, right? It’s not like you’ve had a chance to tell me how much cooler it is working with the Marmorites.”

He can hear Keith’s quiet, confused whisper of, _‘Marmorites?’_ , as his shuffling pauses. There are no further words between them for a very long time, as Lance regrets the idea that he somehow said too much and too little, all at once. As he wonders if Keith would brave the toxic wilderness around them just to get away, if he’d been dumb enough to admit his loneliness and his stupid, helpless feelings in a random moment of weakness.

He wonders if Keith notices how often Lance stares at him, how close he always finds himself gravitating to Keith’s orbit, how desperately he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him.

He wonders if Keith is capable of understanding it—if he’s ever felt that way about another person in his life.

Surely, not. Keith isn’t the sort of person who seems as though he’s ever distracted by humanly wants and needs. He doesn’t seem as though he’s familiar with the concepts of pleasure or lust, of want or love, or the urge to take better care of himself.

If Lance weren’t so busy feeling sorry for himself, he might ponder why that suddenly sounds so sad. He might wonder, if maybe, he could ever hope to be the person who introduces Keith to the idea of self-love, or even… just allowing himself to be loved by another person.

“I thought the two of you were together,” Keith says, with forced nonchalance. It’s the first time that Lance has ever caught him being nosy about anything, and he wonders why this is the subject that he’s chosen. Why this is the thing that he seems to care so much about that he won’t just let it go, “I mean, you’re always hanging out now, right? She doesn’t even get mad when you flirt with her anymore.”

Lance sputters a laugh. He can’t help himself. This is all playing into his selfish fantasies entirely too easily. It seems to him that Keith is jealous. It feels like the kind of thing that he would ask Keith, if Keith ever seemed interested in anyone. But he isn’t even sure if Keith has the ability to feel those things, or if he’d understand those feelings enough to act on them.

He tells himself that Keith is just trying to make conversation. This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just Keith’s awkward first attempts at passing time.

“I think she’s just used to it by now, dude,” he says, “Kinda like, you know, how you don’t get mad at me for saying rude stuff about your hair anymore.”

Keith looks pensive. He’s turned around just enough that Lance can see him cupping his chin in one hand, the other still wrapped protectively around his chest.

“You do talk about my hair a lot. I never understood that.”

And Lance, without thinking about the consequences of his actions—with all of the blood that might charge his brain flown south, with the pretty way that Keith’s hair is reflecting the red light, the way that he’s cast this horrible spell over Lance that he could never hope to break free from—he says the worst thing.

He says, dumbly, simply, unthinking, “You have really pretty hair though. How could I resist talking about it?”

Keith looks at him with so much shock, so much disgust, that he might as well have walked across the room and slapped him. Immediately, with cheeks somehow even redder under Red’s cockpit lights, he tears himself away.

“That’s not what you usually say about it.”

And that’s it. Because Lance doesn’t trust himself not to dig himself deeper and deeper into this proverbial trench of regret. Because Lance doesn’t trust Keith not to misunderstand him.

Because Lance doesn’t trust either of them to ever be able to completely connect—not with everything between them so irreparably broken. Not with how Keith started pulling away, how he left them. Not with how Lance never did, and probably never will, get his answers why.

Not with how he can’t help but blame himself, even though he knows that it’s stupid and self-absorbed.

Keith didn’t leave because he wasn’t a good enough second-in-command. He didn’t even really abandon them. He took off for bigger and better things, for more important work. He left so Shiro, when he finally returned—albeit never quite feeling like the same Shiro—could step back into the shoes of a leader. He left because the Blade of Marmora’s forces had been pulled dreadfully thin.

But all of these, as valid as they are, still feel like non-answers. They still feel like they’ve not quite reached the root of the real issues, or the secrets that surely sleep away in the depths of Keith’s mind. Lance doesn’t understand Keith—not now, and he realizes, that he never has. He doesn’t understand a person who isn’t willing to talk about things. He doesn’t understand someone who tucks themselves away instead of reaching out, who buries every ill feeling under so many layers of protective numbness that he probably can’t feel anything human anymore.

But Lance knows that he’s in love with Keith—has been, since the first day that he caught a glimpse of that horribly styled hair glistening like stars on the black ocean water, against the saturated orange of his cadet uniform. Since he saw that determined smile beamed out over the big screen over the simulation. Since Keith blew away all of the best scores, right away.

He’d fallen in love with that fire, with the determination. He’d coveted that sort of inner strength. That sort of will to push forward and forge his own path. Lance hadn’t ever believed himself to be good enough to achieve the kind of greatness that came to Keith naturally. He’d told himself that he was kept up at night thinking about him, because more than anything, he wanted to be even a fraction as good.

And time had melded the two of them into different people—Keith, into a warrior who was willing to throw away everything for the sake of the universe. Lance, into someone who, back then, he might have thought was worthy of the old Keith.

But now, he isn’t so sure.

Because Keith is shedding his armor and the skintight bodysuit. The smooth skin of his back is translucent under Red’s lights, soft on Lance’s eyes in a way that has his fingers itching to touch it. The muscles, firm under his skin—like hard stone, like the jagged rocks of cliffsides, like an avalanche of sensation all boiling together in Lance’s belly—they beckon him forward, and he doesn’t feel strong. He doesn’t feel even an ounce as capable or brave as he thinks that any other, _better_ Paladin would feel in this situation right now.

But he does feel like a normal young adult with a horrible, overwhelming crush. He feels like any other random protagonist in a romance movie—promising that he won’t take a peek at his love interest as they get changed, but unable to resist the urge to trace the fuzzy outlines of Keith’s naked body in his reflection on Red’s glass.

Keith pushes the bodysuit down to his knees, lifts a leg to untangle it from his ankle. Lance swallows thickly as he catches a glimpse of Keith’s naked ass—wondering how soft it might feel in his palm, how stiff, how practiced it would be under his fingertips, and if the fire within Keith would burn so hot that Lance could feel it emanating under his skin.

Hunk packed them pajamas. Surprisingly, Keith is eager to wear his to bed. Lance knows from experience that he prefers to sleep in his uncomfortable day-clothes, in fear of an attack while he rests, but he wonders if the Marmora uniform is just too uncomfortable. If maybe he doesn’t like having to wear it for too long.

And what the reasons for that might be, before he has a chance to cut off that intrusive, ridiculous train of thought.

“I’m done,” Keith says, snapping him immediately out of his inner monologue, “so you can get changed too, I guess. I’ll go… turn around or something.”

There’s enough embarrassment in his voice that, for a moment, Lance can fool himself into thinking that Keith might peek at him too. He can convince himself that he isn’t the only sneaky pervert here, and maybe there’s more between both of them than just Lance wanting to ruin the nice beginnings of a still-budding relationship.

But Keith is quick to turn around when Lance pushes himself up from his seat. He’s stiff as he shuffles a few feet away, to give Lance the room to find his pajamas and get undressed. He’s facing the wall now, nowhere near any reflective surfaces that he could use to spy, and Lance doesn’t understand why that disappoints him so much. He doesn’t know why he would ever want someone to look at his naked body, or to watch him without knowing that he knew that they were watching.

But maybe it’s just Keith. Maybe, it would only be okay if it was someone like him.

With anyone else, Lance thinks, he might be a little bit more uncomfortable.

As it is, he can’t help but steal a few glances at Keith in his pajamas. It’s been a long time since he’s seen him wearing so little—since he’s seen those chiseled calves free of any armor. Keith’s dressed in red shorts and a baggy white top. The sleeves are red-lined, to match the bottoms. Lance knows that Hunk packed slippers too, but Keith’s feet are bare. He’s just as pale and seemingly hairless as Lance remembers, but there are more scars. Little nicks that Red illuminates in the light, bruises and scuff marks that look painful enough that Lance can’t stare at them for too long.

For the first time, he wonders if Keith is unhappy with the Blades. But he knows, deep down, that Keith doesn’t appreciate his own body like any normal person would. He doesn’t take care of himself how he should. He doesn’t revere physical pain with the same importance, doesn’t allow an injury to slow him down when the average person would know better than to push themselves too far.

Lance shakes his head, ignoring the twinge in his chest as he squeezes out of his Paladin armor. Keith twitches ever-so slightly as it taps against the floor.

“I don’t understand why you never wanted to wear the red armor.”

At first, Lance isn’t sure what to say.

“You didn’t want to wear the black armor either.”

Keith stiffens immediately. He wraps his arms tighter around himself, as though he feels naked here, in just his pajamas, in front of someone who used to think that he was one of his closest friends. Now, Lance isn’t so sure. Now, he can’t say with certainty which terms they’re really on.

“That was different,” Keith grits out, “he disappeared. I left.”

Lance steps into his pajama shorts, pulls the shirt over his head.

“Blue looks better on me though. Red was more of your thing.”

He doesn’t miss the tension slowly easing from Keith’s shoulders, of the color evident as it bleeds into his cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Red would have looked nice on you too.”

And now, he doesn’t have a single witty comeback that would help this conversation feel less stilted. He doesn’t have any flirty one-liners, any jokes, any snooty quips that might ease the tension around them, in the face of such a genuinely nice compliment coming from someone like Keith. And he feels red enough now, anyway, that if Keith actually looked at him, he could see just how nice the color might look against his skin.

He clears his throat, smoothing out his pajamas before stepping into the slippers. They’re the lion ones that he’s worn a lot since they first arrived at the castle. They’re so worn out by now that one of the eyes is starting to peel off.

“I’m done too,” he says, “I guess, uh… we can sleep now.”

Hunk was even thoughtful enough to pack his sleep mask. He isn’t sure if he’s brave enough to wear it tonight, if Keith would think that he was silly for still needing it, if he’d miss anything particularly interesting or dangerous in the middle of the night. He decides against it, tossing it back into the bag. If anything, he doesn’t want to miss all of the precious hours that he might be able to admire Keith’s face while he sleeps.

Which, when he actually thinks about the idea of doing that, sounds a lot creepier than he’s particularly comfortable with.

Keith’s gait is stiff and awkward, as he practically tiptoes forward and pulls up one side of the blanket. It wouldn’t have been roomy enough in here for two cots. And even this one alone is taking up nearly half of the room. They’ll have to push the air out and pack it up in the morning before they leave. They’ll have to take it out and expand it again once they’re ready to sleep tomorrow night. Hopefully, he thinks, all of this will feel less awkward by then.

Hopefully, climbing into bed with Keith won’t feel so much like signing his own death certificate. Like accepting the end of himself and every effort that he’s ever made up until this point to keep this horrible little crush a secret.

He can do this tonight, he thinks. He might not sleep, but at the very least, he can settle down in the blankets and avoid doing anything weird until finally, they can spend some time apart.

“I’ll sleep on this end,” Keith tells him, “You can be on top.”

Lance chokes so loud that Keith seems visibly worried about his health.

“Y-yeah, okay, uh. I’ll… be on top. Sure, sounds… sounds great, Keith.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t question it. He ignores the way that Lance’s voice breaks in favor of finally climbing into the cot. He’s at the end that’s closest to the exit, tucked close to the wall. Lance takes the outer side, closer to the pilot’s chair, and he wonders if Keith chose this position just in case they need to make a quick getaway.

Keith seems to think of everything, when it comes to plans of action. He seems, even during terribly awkward moments like these, as though he can’t stop himself from plotting out every conceivable thing that might go wrong.

It’s another thing that Lance thinks that he should envy about Keith. Just another addition to the long list of reasons why he loves him, when he knows that a normal person would only try harder to be like him.

It isn’t particularly dark in here, with Red’s lights dimmed but never turning off completely. With the eerie sparkles of sunlight forever filtering through the fog and the canopy outside. Perpetual daylight, Allura had explained to them. But the night brought a thicker, more toxic fog into the air. The trees themselves were the poison. The wildlife thrived off of the rot, and the contamination. Off of the spores and venom that would slowly eat away at them without Red’s protective armor.

He doesn’t want to think about it too much. About how dangerous all of this is. About the idea of dying without ever seeing his family again, without ever growing strong enough to get over Keith.

But Keith seems to slip into sleep a lot faster, with far less effort. He seems exhausted, anyway. Lance hasn’t been able to ignore the telltale shadows of bags beneath his eyes. Lance can’t help but allow his mind to wander to all of the possible reasons for that. If maybe Keith has been stressed out since he left. If maybe being a Blade is harder.

If maybe he’s been weighed down by his own regret and unspoken feelings—but then that opens a levy of emotions that Lance isn’t comfortable confronting just yet, and so, he elects instead to roll over and close his eyes.

He instead thinks of Keith’s naked body in Red’s windshield reflection. Then he thinks about how soft that skin might feel in his hands, if Keith’s voice would crack with pleasure if he ever touched him, if Keith ever touches himself.

And his dreams reflect this beautifully, as though to throw his own gross perversions back at him, to prove to him just how wrong it is to lust after someone sleeping peacefully just a few inches away.

In this dream, they’re tangled together in the thick shadow of the night, on the crisp, freshly washed sheets of the bed in his room. Keith’s hair is splayed out like dark moss against his pillow—and Lance thinks about the ocean, about the deep depths of the sea. He thinks about how wide and dark and open Keith’s eyes look in the night. How he could swallow him up now, and Lance would drown happily. How warm his skin is to the touch, like smothering a flame between his fingers—but the flame just keeps burning him, again and again. And he can’t find the will to pull his hands away.

Then Keith, shoved up into his throat—Keith’s erection hard and warm and smooth. The salt of his precum on Lance’s tongue. The feeling of him, eager and twitching, shoving further and further back, until Lance is gagging and wanting more. Until he’s pulling back and slamming himself harder and faster around Keith’s cock until tears are hot and thick, rolling from the corners of his eyes down his cheeks.

Until Keith is pulling his hair, crying out. Cumming, hard, into the deep recesses of his throat.

Until he’s trembling awake—hard in the soft red glow of the Red lion, shivering with sweaty need, as Keith snores and rolls over, wiping a hand over his face and muttering sleepily.

Lance drags in a shuddered breath, slamming his eyes closed and pressing his thighs together. He tries to rid his head of all of those dream-thoughts—of how wonderful Keith had felt in his mouth, how realistic and beautiful those noises that he’d made had sounded, echoing in his ears. He tries not to think about how Keith had trembled beneath him, the gargle of his moans, of Lance’s name on his lips, and the curses, the cries, all of the noises that had threatened to tumble out of him all at once, unhindered by the usual distance and silence that he wedged between himself and everyone else.

Lance had dreamed of reaching in and touching a Keith that he knows better than to think that he’ll ever see. But now that he’s imagined it, even as he cracks open a guilty eye and drinks in Keith’s serene, slumbering face, he can’t wipe it from his thoughts entirely.

And he knows that it’s disgusting, how aroused he still is. How his erection between the tight press of his thighs shouldn’t be standing at attention just because of a silly dream. He knows that he shouldn’t be thinking these things, about his teammate, and his friend, the leader that seemingly abandoned them, the rival always dancing just a little bit too far beyond his fingertips.

He knows that this is wrong—the want, the stupid crush, the sneaky glances that he steals when Keith isn’t looking, or when he thinks that no one cares enough to watch him. He knows that he shouldn’t know how sad Keith looks sometimes, how lonely, how often he struggles to reach out and forge connections, and how guilty he seems to be when those connections .

And he shouldn’t be touching himself either, thinking these thoughts, watching Keith in the dark. He shouldn’t be imagining the low drawl of Keith’s heady moans, the tug of those calloused fingers in his hair.

He shouldn’t be thinking of that ghost of touch, how Keith might plunge inside of him without worry, without precaution—how the sting of it would melt into pleasure, how the pain would feel _so sweet_ , how every ache and all of Keith would become such a collection of saccharine sensations that he might not ever be able to think straight again.

The warmth of Keith’s lips, Keith’s breath. The scrape of his dull, uneven nails. The black dots of his eyes, under thick, fanned lashes. The swollen pink of his lips. Tense, milky thighs spread out and eager, inviting. That cock, thick and veined, sprawling out of a thick curl of dark hair—he’s in far too deep. He’s thinking about all of this way too hard.

He’s touching himself too much now, smearing precum from the head of his dick into his palm, pumping at himself with such vigor that the uneven, alien air mattress wiggles underneath him, jostling Keith.

Keith’s expression stays smooth, his breathing heavy. His eyes are still closed.

Lance gains a confidence from this that’s only fueled by his own tired arousal. He makes a stupid, regretful decision because he tells himself that these few days will surely be the last days that he’ll ever get to spend alone with Keith.

After tonight, and the following two mornings, Keith will be whisked away on another important adventure. He’ll be surrounded by soldiers far bigger and tougher than Lance could ever hope to be. He’ll be working on secret missions, forgetting about all of this, piece by piece.

And he won’t stop to mourn this lost time. He won’t spare Lance a single, final thought.

Because Keith doesn’t care about any of this—he can’t, possibly, when he’s the one who left. And he shouldn’t, either, because Lance wasn’t a good enough reason to stay. He’s not stupid enough to convince himself that he’s ever been more to Keith than a thorn in his side, or a stepping stone to greatness that just took a little bit longer to crush under his foot.

The cot underneath him shakes, as his fist pumps faster, as his arm moves quicker. As he pushes out tiny, heavy breaths between his lips, curses that sound too much like Keith’s name through his tightly clasped teeth.

And just as he’s getting closer, just as his vision grows fuzzier around the edges, and a familiar heat crawls from his toes all the way up into his spine—

“Lance? What the Hell are you doing?”

Karmic justice, Lance thinks, is nothing to be toiled with. It’s not a force to take lightly, to disregard—and he knows, deep down, that any situation with Keith that could result in him finding out something that he shouldn’t will probably… end in just that way.

Keith has never been very good at allowing him to get away with anything. Keith’s never been very good at ignoring warning signs, or not raining on his parade right when things were starting to get good.

Lance’s eyes are so wide when they snap open that he feels as though they might roll out of his head. His hand immediately still, his cock giving a few appreciative twitches in his fist, as though it’s the only one in this current situation that appreciates all of the new, horrible possibilities unfolding around him. In this moment of panic, clarity rushes over Lance in thick waves—the realization of what he’s been doing, who he’s been thinking of, all of the awful noises that he’s sure Keith heard just as he was waking up.

And he hates himself, in this moment. He hates that he couldn’t have at least pulled himself out of bed and sat in the pilot’s chair, that he couldn’t last more than one night this close to Keith without taking advantage of it. Without making such a tremendous ass out of himself that, surely, Keith will decide that this mission isn’t worth it. They need to go back to the Castle right now, so he can proceed to fly away with Kolivan and the other Marmorites, and maybe, hopefully, never have to spend even another second alone with Lance ever again.

“I—” Everything that Lance could say right now, every excuse, every pitiful lie, they’re all wedged far down in the depths of his throat. And they’re tumbling out as nothing short of a garbled mess of noises and syllables, nonsense that means nothing to himself, or even Keith, watching him in confusion in the dark. “I-I’m sorry, I think I was asleep, I was dreaming, you know, and I—I just woke up when you talked, so I don’t know—”

“You were touching yourself.” Keith’s voice is flat. The red hue of his skin illuminated in the shadows gives nothing useful away. “And you were saying my name.”

“ _W-was I_ ?” Lance’s voice is pitched so high that he sounds like he’s doing some kind of cartoon impression. “Man, that must have been some crazy dream, _right_ ? If I was thinking about _you_!”

He forces a laugh, pulls himself up and crosses his legs to mask the tent in the front of his shorts. He wraps his arms around himself, for comfort, for stability as he shakes—and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just get up and move now. Why it’s so monumentally difficult to tear himself away from the few beams of warmth that he can still feel radiating off of Keith.

He twitches, ever so slightly, as Keith pulls himself up too. They’re just a few feet apart now, but Lance can’t ignore the energy popping between them; the fire from his dream, burning the tips of his fingers, boiling just under his skin. Keith’s eyes seem to light up the darkness, as he stares into Lance’s face, as he looks at him, unblinking, not turning away—peeling open his head and reading all of his secret thoughts, and seeing through him so effortlessly.

Lance clears his throat, snapping his gaze to the blankets tangled around his legs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so low and so quiet that his voice is barely there at all, “that was really gross and… weird. I should have had more… restraint, or respect, or… just, you know, not done it.”

Keith is still watching him, silently. He can feel those eyes roving over his body, prickling over his skin. From his face, to his throat, fanning out over his shoulders, to his chest, to the embarrassing erection still throbbing with need, obscured by his knees and the blanket pulled out around them. He wonders if Keith knows that it’s under there, somehow. He wonders if Keith can smell this weakness on him, if he finally understands what’s going on.

“It’s fine,” Keith says then, breaking the quiet so nonchalantly that, momentarily, Lance has trouble realizing that he’s even said anything at all, “I think of you when I do that too.”

Lance doesn’t get an opportunity to allow that revelation to settle in—because Keith is climbing forward, bridging the gap between them. The cot moves precariously under his weight, as he crawls on hands and knees, but he doesn’t seem to pay it much mind. His eyes are trained on Lance’s face. There is nothing, Lance thinks, that could break that concentration now, not when Keith has made his mind up. Not when he’s staring at another person in the same way that he sometimes looks at ships, at the Red lion’s complicated controls, at missions that he knows that he could complete if only the team would allow him to be reckless enough.

And Lance isn’t so surprised when Keith touches him, because he knows what that expression means. He knows that Keith wants to touch him now, to feel him, just like he’s always wanted to touch and feel Keith.

The lips are warm and soft, pressed slowly against his own. The fingers twine through his hair so gently that he wonders, for a split second, if this, too, is a dream.

But Keith is kissing him now, running fingers through his hair. Keith is pressing damp lips against the corner of his mouth, along his jaw, to his throat. And there are teeth then, pressed into his skin. There’s the suction of a mouth sucking lightly, the hot, wet swipe of an apologetic tongue. There’s Keith’s husky voice, breathing out warm cloud against his skin, _“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”_

For a long time, Lance can’t find the strength to say anything in response to that. He tips back his head, keening low and long in the back of his throat as Keith’s fingers sneak under his shirt, pushing it up over his belly. The blunted nails scrape against a nipple, pinch it hard between the flat edges of Keith’s fingers—and those eyes continue to burn him. Keith continues to touch him. None of this reveals itself to be anything but astounding, intoxicating reality.

The lips are on his collarbone, then under his shirt. The teeth and that hot tongue, they’re biting down, they’re wet and warm on his skin, around his nipples, delving further down his belly until Keith’s mouth is ghosting over the cloth barely obscuring the tent of his erection.

“K-Keith,” he huffs, so breathless and light headed, so wanton and needy, but so dazed and dizzy by all of this happening so fast, “I’ve—I’ve wanted this too.”

And Keith asks him then, if now, it’s okay. He says yes, always yes. Because in this moment, Keith is real and he’s touching him. He isn’t going away. This moment is everything and all that he’s ever wanted. This moment is himself, finally whole and real and all that Keith sees. All that he wants to touch. All that he wants to come home to.

For a split second, he can convince himself that Keith won’t leave after all of this.

For a small lapse of time, he can pretend that after tonight, everything will be okay.

There is no war or Voltron. There’s no Blade of Marmora. There’s no endless fight, no struggle to survive. It’s just the two of them, touching and feeling—Keith’s mouth searching through the slit of his boxers and closing around the head of his cock. Keith’s fingers wrapping around the base as he eases it into the back of his throat.

Keith’s head bobbing, his fingers in Keith’s hair.

And himself, swept away in all of this sensation.

He’s so strung out by now that it doesn’t take long for him to finish. He does so with a jerk of his hips and a small cry through his clasped lips. It takes him longer to catch his breath. It takes so much time to stop seeing stars that he’s surprised to find Keith pressing his own cock into his hands when he comes to.

It doesn’t take him long to start touching Keith too, to kiss his throat, just as Keith had kissed his, to slip his free hand under Keith’s shirt to feel the indentations of his muscles flexing under his skin as Lance begins to move his hand.

Keith presses his face into the crook of Lance’s neck, just where it meets his shoulder. They shift a little, fall downward onto the cot. They’re lying across from each other now, tangled together—all legs and arms, all puffed, warm breath. All little noises, and the shaking of the air mattress as Lance moves his fist.

And Keith’s seed is hot as it spurts out over his hand, down his wrist, onto the mattress. Keith is a shuddered, breathless mess. He’s cursing quietly through his teeth.

Lance wipes the mess on the side of the mattress, and he knows that he’ll regret it later. When he has to explain the stain of it to Hunk or Pidge. When someone sees it and knows exactly what it means.

But for now, he doesn’t have the strength to care.

He pulls the blanket over both of them. He wraps his legs up with Keith’s.

And they kiss again, lazily, sleepily.

Keith tells him, “I don’t know if I want this mission to be over.”

And Lance wonders why he really left then, if he didn’t want to grow apart from everyone. He wonders, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to think about any of that right now. He doesn’t want to shatter this perfect illusion.

Later on, there will be time for these conversations.

Tomorrow, or the next. Another day when the Blade of Marmora meets up for coalition meetings, another fleeting moment in which they’ll find themselves working together again.

They’ll have time, later on, for the hard things.

But for now, all that he wants is to enjoy as much of Keith as he can, until tomorrow, falling asleep so close by.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a project that started out as a small idea for a Valentine’s day exchange that we did among friends, then… the idea kept growing. I’d set a limit for myself for about three thousand words, but, of course, that ended up not happening! Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I’d like to thank **TLaw** for helping me with the title! I came to her and said, “I am totally tapped out on good English idioms.” and she was nice enough to tell me this:  
>  "So there's this thing people say, like let's say one person is wearing red you would say, 'Ese de rojo!' Which is... that person in red lmao, but!!! The next part is 'me lo cojo' which means, I would fuck them/wanna fuck them. So ‘ese de rojo, me lo cojo’."


End file.
